


bedroom hymns (a heart full of love, a heart full of you)

by caravaggiosbrushes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Come Eating, Comeplay, Domestic Bliss, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Finger Sucking, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Francis POV, Gay, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Twitter, Intercrural Sex, Kissing, M/M, Messy Kisses, Oil as Lube, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Slash, Smut, Wife Guy Francis Crozier, Wife Guy James Fitzjames, blows a kiss to the sky. for my twitter mutuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28340247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/pseuds/caravaggiosbrushes
Summary: He feels empty— no, not empty. He feels ready to be filled: by James’ love, James’ fingers, James’ seed.-Fix-it fitzier, written for my bingo square “intercrural sex” and because (quoting my twitter mutuals) fitzier invented love.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 24
Kudos: 65
Collections: The Terror Bingo, The Terror Bingo (2020)





	bedroom hymns (a heart full of love, a heart full of you)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a self-indulgent Christmasy fitzier that has been inspired by my twitter Terrors who, a couple of days ago, started talking about how fitzier invented love and how they are married and are both Wife Guys, so we all got incredibly emotional and lost our minds over the concept. This is my contribution to that: fix-it, domestic bliss, a bit of smut and them being very married :}
> 
> Also written for [my bingo square](https://i.ibb.co/7jSLd1K/20-12-26-16-34-38-956-deco.jpg) “ **intercrural sex** ”.
> 
> Enjoy and happy holidays ♥
> 
> (oh yes we also have a moodboard this time!)

_“If you notice a dancing light on the water, that’s me._

_The light kisses your nose, then your eyes, and you can’t rub it off;_

_my darling honey how I adore you, and Lord knows I can’t say what it means to me to come into the room and find you sitting there.”_

_— Virginia Woolf in a letter to her sister Vanessa Bell c. August 1937_

  
  
  


Francis wakes up with heavy eyelids and a delightful ache in his muscles, a reminder of last night’s activities. 

At first, he’s not entirely sure he’s awake: sleep clings so fiercely to both his mind and body that it makes his perception of reality dream-like: he feels too content to be awake, this must be still a dream. However, he also feels the heavy covers and soft bed sheets embracing him in a tight hug and he easily recognizes their familiar softness. More so, he’s sure to be awake because his nose is filled with James’ scent, comforting like a gentle touch after a long day.

Francis shifts on the mattress, not bothering to open his eyes, not yet, relishing in the familiar presence behind him. He breathes deeply, inhaling James’ scent, allowing his mind to register that they are here together, safe and whole, both of them.

The weight on his chest he knows to be James’ hand, relaxed over his heart: the man often falls asleep like this, as if to make sure Francis’ heart is working right.

Then, Francis recognizes the anchoring weight over his arm as James’ own, keeping him close to himself even in sleep. 

He moves James’ hand from his heart to his lips to leave a kiss on the tip of his index finger and James makes a soft sound in his sleep and curls himself even more around Francis’ body, his legs pushing lightly at the back of Francis’ own, his face buried in Francis’ nape.

This: this is what Francis cherishes the most, now.

He’s never been a social man, quite the contrary, in fact: whilst his peers and fellow seamen always look for either a fun night or a nice dinner in company, Francis has never been attracted to those gatherings, not even when he was a boy, but now less than ever. It's not because he despises those events, not at all: in truth, he’s now more understanding than what he’s ever been, because he finally sees why people feel the need to meet each other, talk to each other and be seen in return: their time here is what it is, a flicker of a candle, and if they want to be seen and admired, if they feel the need to fill their days with meetings and outings, who can blame them? Not Francis, certainly, who has wasted years hiding in the bottom of a bottle.

No, what now makes these events a pain for Francis is simply the fact that they prevent him to be with James and James only. He’s not a possessive man: James is free to see whoever he wishes, whenever he wishes, with or without Francis (and if most of the time this turns out to be a “ _with_ Francis” experience he can’t help but feeling warm at the realisation that James wishes to be with him just as much as he does), but being separated from him is now almost unbearable. They went through too much not to relish to the fullest what they finally have.

So, what Francis cherishes now, after getting back from Hell, is very simple: it’s waking up in either his or James’ bed, with the man curled behind him like a quick brushstroke of long limbs and delicious warmth around Francis’ body.

This is Francis’ reward for surviving not just the Arctic, but his entire life, his two previous rejected proposals and the heartbreak, scorn and shame that came with them; this is what he has always dreamed of and always pictured for himself, always felt like he was actually living it, and realising that he was in fact living it, but the other person was _not_ , had felt like a terrible punch in the guts every single time.

With James, he hasn’t even realised he actually had it, until he was already deep in it, and James with him. This is the greatest marvel of it, Francis thinks, listening attentively to James’ slow breathing, puffed against the nape of his neck: that James was falling for him just as hard as he was.

( _“Ah, well,” James had said one day when they were discussing this, both of them satiated after their lovemaking, still naked under the covers, “In truth, I think it happened way earlier for me.” “What do you mean?” Francis asked. “I mean,” James said, playing with his hand, “that I admired you even before meeting you. And then when I did meet you, you were not what I was expecting—” Francis snorted, but James went on, “in the sense that you were not easy to please. I did everything I knew to get people’s attention, but nothing seemed to work with you, so I made it my own challenge to" he made a vague gesture "conquer you.” He smiled at his past self, “But in hindsight, I think that was just me falling obsessively for you”_ ).

Francis shifts his leg on top of James’, trying to bring him closer, even if they’re already perfectly connected to one another like two matching spoons of the same set.

“Mmm.” James stirs and shifts deliciously against him. “‘morning. Is it late?”

His voice is heavy and rough with sleep. Francis pushes back unconsciously against him.

There’s a specific type of anticipation in slow mornings like this, one that stirs low as a dormant fire: they have no place to be, no reason to get up quickly, and Emma, their maid, is home with her own family. No one is asking them anything and their only concern is making sure the other is comfortable and warm enough.

Here in their little home it feels like they’re the only men left in the entire world, but not as it was in the Arctic: back then, it felt like Francis and his men were the only people walking the Earth, living the same torture over and over, descending one Circle of torment after the other; here, he and James are the only two citizens of their shared Heaven and they get to decide what happens next.

“I don’t think so.” He says, not opening his eyes, “Not excessively, at least.”

“Mh, good.” James sighs happily, his hot breath against his skin makes Francis’ blood stir. More so when James nibbles at his shoulder before asking, “Do we have to get up?”

“No.” He swallows, tongue thick in his mouth, “We have time.”

That’s the greatest miracle of Francis’ life: having time and having it with James. James, who falls back on the pillow, pushes his face in Francis’ hair, nuzzling his nose in it. He makes a low sound that Francis feels vibrating against his own neck and in his prick, slowly taking interest in what’s happening. 

James’ hand moves to one of his nipples, pinching it lightly over the nightshirt, and a viscous wave of want unfolds in Francis’ stomach. He arches his back to push his backside against James, feeling the shape and hardness of him under their night garments. He twists his neck to look at him. What greets him is a lovely vision of James with terribly endearing bed hair, a single lock of it falling in front of his eyes; his face is soft and relaxed, the result of a good night of undisturbed sleep. His nightgown has fallen down one shoulder, leaving his collarbone exposed. He’s looking at Francis with hungry eyes, dark with a desire that lacks urgency, but it’s rich in honesty.

“Hi.” James murmurs, staring at Francis’ mouth. He traces Francis’ cheek, nose and lips with his fingertip, making him feel so stupidly in love that his chest hurts.

“Hi.” Francis reaches back to thread his fingers in James’ hair at the back of his head, “Come here.”

James doesn’t argue that he is, in fact, already _here_. Instead, he leans toward Francis to lick at his bottom lip before kissing him slow and deep, making his toes curl.

“Francis,” James whispers on his lips, “would it be terribly rude of me to want you before breakfast?”

He can almost feel his blood rushing down to his prick, the desire of being desired making him dizzy.

“You can have me anytime.” Francis says with his heartbeat in his throat, “you never have to ask.”

He places a hand on James’ hip, still covered by the nightgown. He hastily pushes it up, while James does the same to his own, their hands brushing with the impatience of getting closer, naked, feeling the other against themselves. When James’ hardening prick comes in contact with his naked back they both groan.

James covers his shoulders with kisses made wet by laps and licks and soft bites and places his big hand on Francis’ thigh. Then whispers, directly against his ear: “Be my good wife?”

It makes Francis’ entire body feel almost on fire, his face burning with waves of desire and a hint of delicious shame for how fiercely he wants this.

If Francis would have been awake for longer he would have probably made a joke out of this, trying to make his own embarrassment less obvious. But Francis is half asleep still and he feels so warm and safe here, under their rooftop and their blankets, with James’ leg thrown over his own and James’ arm across his chest, keeping him as close as possible so he can rub his nose behind Francis’ ear and his now hard prick in between Francis’s asscheeks— so Francis just breathes a soft, “yes,” because that’s what he wants: to be James’ good wife and husband, to be a tool for James’ pleasure and happiness.

In mornings like this, when everything has blurred edges, when the light is warm and delicate and falls on their bed in delicate rivulets, Francis and James barely feel the need to speak in order to communicate with each other, and when they do, it’s in their own private language, low murmurs that would be indiscernible for anyone else. 

So Francis doesn’t speak, doesn’t tell James that he is still loose from last night, that he can start right away, that he can bugger him slow and deep, because James already knows all of this.

He expects James to use his fingers to open him up, but James doesn’t touch him there. Instead, he brings his hand up and in the fog of sleep and arousal it takes Francis a moment to understand that he’s licking at his own palm. He twists his neck back as much as he can, makes a somewhat lamentuous noise that he’s immediately ashamed of, and grabs at James’ hand, pulling it towards his own mouth.

“Christ—” James hides his face against his neck again, biting down on his skin. Francis’ cock twitches hard against his belly and he suppresses a moan stuffing his mouth with James’ index and middle fingers. He gets them wet until they’re dripping with his spit. Meanwhile, James kisses and licks every single inch of his body he can reach and Francis has never felt more handsome and self-confident than this.

He sucks hard on James’ long fingers curled in his mouth, feeling blessed to be here, now, with him like this.

“Let me touch you, I need to touch you,” James pants, sounding close to hysterical with want. He snaps his fingers free from Francis’ mouth and, once again, Francis expects to next feel them on his opening, but James taps at the back of his thighs.

“Here,” James circles the portion of skin where Francis’ thighs come in contact, “trust me. It will feel good.”

He has no doubts that it will, even if he’s not entirely sure what he intends to do. But he trusts James, so he does as he’s told, feeling James’ smearing his own saliva on his skin and rubbing the head of his prick against the back of his thighs. After a short pause there are James’ fingers again, this time greased with the oil they use for their lovemaking.

Francis realises he’s grasping at the covers like a drowning man to a lifeline, although not in fear, but in tight anticipation. He expects to feel little to no particular pleasure at James’ cock in between his thighs, because it’s not a particular sensible region of his body and it’s definitely not where he craves to have him right now (not that he complains. He loves giving James what he wants, any time), so it’s a shock when James’ prick breeches the narrow space in between his thighs and pleasure blooms in Francis’ body. He hadn’t put into account what kind of effect a few things have on him: feeling him so close, James moaning in his ear with abandon, his still-oily fingers grasping at Francis upper thigh, his body warm and solid behind him, his cock fucking Francis’ thighs. 

“James.”

“Keep them tight and close for me,” he hums, “you feel so good.”

“And you,” he grasps at James’ hip, his thigh, his nightgown, “go on.”

James does. His cock is a hot shaft in between Francis’ thighs, kept so close together that his muscles are tensed with effort. 

James’ breathing gets more laboured with every thrust, his hand going to Francis’ chest again, but under his nightshirt this time, twisting his nipple, leaving him desperate for a kiss, so Francis turns his face as he can, and James' mouth is there, hungry and demanding. He grunts in the kiss at every thrust and it’s so hot Francis feels like he’s going to melt here at how good it feels, even if his own prick is screaming for attention. He takes James’ hand and pushes it down in between his legs, demanding.

James stops kissing him and rests his forehead against Francis’ temple, “God, Francis,” he murmurs. 

Francis is leaking against his own belly. He feels empty— no, not empty. He feels ready to be filled: by James’ love, James’ fingers, James’ seed.

“James,” he sounds like he’s ready to beg. “If you don’t touch me—”

“Yes,” James kisses his cheek, softly. “Darling. Yes.”

Francis’ vision whitens at the first touch of James’ fingers around his hard cock. He starts stroking it with slow, calculated movements, Francis’ favourites and it’s so good he has to kiss James for it, so he brings his hand back in James’ hair to get him close and clashes their mouths together in a messy kiss.

“You give me no rest.” James murmurs on his lips while he pushes in between Francis’ thighs in tandem with his strokes on Francis’ cock, “Not even in my sleep— I never not think of you.”

“You dreamed of me?” Francis breathes.

“Yes.”

“What about?”

James moans a low “ _ahhh_ ” on his lips, then proceeds to lick at the side of his neck. “Putting my mouth on you, while you were writing your correspondence.”

Francis can picture it vividly: they would make an obscene scene, James kneeling on the floor in between his knees, Francis with a hand in his hair, alternatively keeping him still to push into his mouth and petting his hair, telling him how well he is doing, how good it feels.

“I would let you do it,” he licks at James’ bottom lip, “You’d be so good and quiet, so Emma wouldn’t find out and you could get your mouth on me anytime.”

“ _Yes_ ,” James tugs at his cock almost violently, possessively, “yes. I’d have you always.”

Their rhythmic movements fill the air of their little heavenly alcove with obscene, squelching noises.

“Francis.” James says on his lips, “Francis.”

He sounds pleading, as feverish with pleasure as Francis feels. His grip on Francis’ prick becomes tighter with every movement.

“I know, love,” Francis licks at his bottom lip, at his chin, “I know.”

James crashes his mouth on his again, invading it with his tongue. And then he goes still with one last, rough thrust, moaning low in his ear, spurting seed on Francis’ thighs and his own wrist, working Francis towards an equally delicious end.

They lay in their shared bliss for a few minutes, completely in silence except for their panting breaths, James’ soft kisses now and then on Francis’ hair and neck, and Francis’ kisses on James’ hand, that he cleans with greedy laps of his tongue. James steals it away to lick at Francis’ seed while staring at him with heavy lidded eyes. Francis grips at his wrist and licks at the side of his hand, his fingers, James’ tongue on it. Together they clean it to the last drop, ending up licking at each other’s lips, sucking each other’s tongue into their mouths. 

When James gets a washcloth and cleans both of them, Francis doesn't move from the bed: these are the only times he grants himself the luxury of being lazy, because the things he loves he wants to appreciate at their fullest.

They’re both very quiet with words, their thoughts slowed by sleep and bliss, but they keep smiling at each other and stare at the other sofly, in love. It’s only when James comes back to bed and envelops Francis in a hug, both of them naked and freshly fucked, that he speaks again, with his forehead pressed to Francis’.

“Sometimes I think I died there and all of this is just a very nice dream.”

“I know.” Francis threads his fingers in his lovely hair, “But it’s not a dream.”

James smiles softly. “I hope so. I love all of this, incredibly.”

“I do too.” He threads a lock of hair behind his ear, “And you.”

“And you.” James closes his eyes and smiles, “my dear husband.”

“My husband.” Francis confirms in a whisper.

They’re both almost asleep again when Francis is struck by a thought.

He caresses James’ cheek gently, “James?”

The man has his eyes closed, his face relaxed with sleep. It takes him a moment to reply. “Mh?”

“I think it’s Christmas day.”

“’s always Christmas day, now.” James mumbles, nestling his face in Francis’ neck.

“What?”

But James doesn’t answer, already asleep once again. 

So Francis kisses him on an eyebrow and goes back to sleep too.

**Author's Note:**

> \- *wipes away a tear* god, i love them so much
> 
> \- James is wearing something like [ this ](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556603f0e4b0bdf8e9e3092a/1547031067136-2Q182WCFS43FC0XJ3DM8/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kFn01b69qibFV6p4ATINgYx7gQa3H78H3Y0txjaiv_0fDoOvxcdMmMKkDsyUqMSsMWxHk725yiiHCCLfrh8O1z5QHyNOqBUUEtDDsRWrJLTmaHJ0CCIp0h94CjFWATtzumDyWwG6cTlYaiji1mbxg2_decyTpAb-46CnvkjVgn6l/Victorian+Era+Sleepwear?format=1500w) .
> 
> \- [RT](https://twitter.com/downeymore/status/1342864463347789824?s=20) / [reblog](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/638582026280353793/bedroom-hymns-a-heart-full-of-love-a-heart-full)
> 
> \- thank you for reading ♥ this is for my twitter Terrors, who have kept me company during this horrible year with memes, fancams and daily fitzier prompts. i love you all :^)
> 
> \- every one of your kudos and comments make James and Francis stay in bed for five more minutes. 


End file.
